The Hunting of the Snark
by MLaw
Summary: Illya throws down a challenge to Napoleon. Written for PicFic Tuesday, on section7mfu on Live Journal, from a photo prompt. The cover for this story. pre-saga


_"**Just the place for a Snark!" the Bellman cried,as he landed his crew with care;****Supporting each man on the top of the tide. By a finger entwined in his hair.**"**Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice: That alone should encourage the crew. Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice."~ Lewis Carroll**_

**.**

Illya Kuryakin had often been described as 'snarky' by his partner. Somehow the Russian had become testy enough at one of Napoleon's remarks about his 'snarkiness' that he threw down a challenge, taking inspiration from a Lewis Carroll poem that he'd recently read, called '_The Hunting of the Snark."_

The challenge was a game to be played on their down time, one of hide and seek with Napoleon being the hunter and Illya deciding he would indeed be the _Snark_.

"Deal!" Solo answered eagerly, offering his hand to seal the agreement. "This is going to be fun when I beat you at your own game."

"Do not be so sure of it," Illya sneered with assurance. He looked at his wristwatch. "You have five hours to find me. The game is afoot in fifteen minutes. You find me, then you win, if you do not, then I am of course declared the winner and you will no longer refer to me as _snarky."_

"Now wait a minute," Napoleon held up his hand. " Let's make this a little more interesting. How about the loser buys dinner at the 21 Club?

"Yes, but when _you lose_, you have to buy dinner at the Russian Tea Room," Illya grinned.

"Done," they agreed out loud.

Illya turned, disappearing through their office door without another word.

Napoleon gave him another minute, then took off after him without waiting the requisite fifteen minutes, knowing full well the Russian would do the exact same thing if he were the hunter.

But Solo stopped. No, he'd see this through and beat Illya fair and square. He needed to think things out. Illya had referenced _The Hunting of the Snark_ not just because he'd been accused of being snarky...the poem had to be the Russian's template for his plan.

Illya was not the strategist in the partnership, and at times he could be a bit predictable, but only to Napoleon, since he knew him so well. Solo's first step was to go directly to the computer section to obtain a copy of the poem.

A tech handed him a print out of it and he quickly scanned it.

"I didn't think that was your type of reading Napoleon. I took you for more of a 'love sonnet' sort of guy," she purred.

Her comment fell on deaf ears as he read the poem; it appeared just a bit of rhyming nonsense and offered no coherent clues.

"_A Barrister, a Broker, A Billiard-marker, a Banker, a Bellman, a Beaver, that paced on the deck, or would sit making lace in the bow. And had often, the Bellman said, saved them from wreck, Though none of the sailors knew how."_

"_There was one who was famed for the number of things". _Other words stood out to Napoleon, umbrella, watch, jewels and rings. clothes and forty-two boxes all left behind on the beach after their ship sank. But the stranger who saved them_..."he had seven coats on when he came,_

_with three pairs of boots — but the worst of it was, He had wholly forgotten his name."_

Napoleon sighed as they seemed bizarre clues, if that's what they were, in a poem that was full of nothing but nonsense words . He abandoned his doubts, deciding they were indeed clues as his partner did love his puzzles, and that was exactly what Illya presented him with over and above the challenge. He had to make sense of the poem...

"Bellman, that has to be Del...Barrister," Napoleon mumbled to himself. "U.N.C.L.E. legal department, a Broker...the financial and legal offices were both located at the other end of the complex above the Mask Club. He had no idea who _the Banker_ was, a _Butcher_, a _beaver_, _umbrella_, _watch_, _jewelry_.

And someone who was _nameless, and saved them all._ That had to be Illya, or was he the beaver...busy little guy that he was. Or was he the Butcher, more for his sometimes butcherous ways? And the beaver, was he, Napoleon, the beaver, recalling that Illya had once called him a busy beaver when it came to the ladies.

"Sigh." This was going to be harder than he first thought.

So far what he could figure out all pointed to the Mask Club, and armed now with the print out of the poem in hand, Napoleon headed out through Del Floria's passing the Bellman so to speak and down the end of the block to the entrance of the private gentleman's club owned and maintained by U.N.C.L.E.

The first thing he spotted at after walking inside was the blue and white porcelain umbrella stand inside the main foyer. The club was decorated like something out of an Alan Quartermain story with large palm trees, paneled walls, oil paintings along with oriental pottery, with brass and ivory trinkets and carved statuary in every nook and cranny. The only thing contemporary were the waitresses, scantily clad in their little black costumes like Playboy bunnies, and wearing their black lace masks.

"Hi Napoleon," a masked blonde smiled at him."You're here a little early aren't you?"

"Hi...um, Stephanie," he answered her, distractedly and not paying attention. He was busy looking for clues...

Attached to a black umbrella sitting in the stand was a small tag with a note written on it. The handwriting was cursive, neat and definitely Kuryakin's.

"Congratulations, you have made it this far my friend, a little slow perhaps. 'Lucky' guess on your part_. Поймай меня, если сможешь_catch me if you can_." He wrote in Russian and sighed his initials. 'IK.'

Napoleon uttered a soft growl; obviously his partner was taunting him. But Illya had said one word that rang true, and probably unintentionally, it was the word 'lucky.' " Never underestimate the Solo luck _tovarisch."_

At the billiard table he found another clue. A card that read 7 + 3. Napoleon looked at the copy of the poem. "He had seven coats on when he came, with three pairs of boots"

"Seven coats and three pairs of boots...that had to be the tie- in to 7+ 3."

He snapped his finger and stopped at the bar for a quick scotch, and to speak with the bartender. They always had the scoop on everyone.

"Sal, have you seen Mr. Kuryakin today?"

"Mr. K? He's right there heading out the door." Sal pointed.

Napoleon turned his head quickly, seeing the door swinging closed.

"Put it on my tab Sal," he said putting down his empty glass, and rushing outside.

He stopped dead in his tracks, standing on the sidewalk, seeing no sign of his partner, nor was there a taxi going in either direction. "Son of a bi.."

Still, there was the clue 7 + 3...equals 10. Perhaps an address? There were a lot of tens in New York City. Napoleon stared at the paper, looking for an answer. "Banker," he snapped his fingers. "No, too easy." He read another part of the poem.

"_Taking Three as the subject to reason about— A convenient number to state— We add Seven and Ten and then multiply out By One Thousand...The result we proceed to divide, as you see, By Nine Hundred and Ninety and Two; Then subtract Seventeen, and the answer must be true. Exactly and perfectly true."_

Now that sounded like an Illya-esque clue...Napoleon sat down on a bench outside the club and pulled a pen from his pocket, doing the math on the back of the paper with the poem, thinking Illya could just do all this math in his head, dammit.

"10.01001001001001." Made no sense as far as an address, and Napoleon supposed it was not a good clue after all. He decided to stick with his original idea and hailed a taxi.

"10 Banker Street, " he told the driver.

"Banker Street, Brooklyn. Okay Mac."

That answered the question. The taxi headed out, crossing the Queensboro Bridge, and with traffic it took nearly a half hour of precious time to catch the sneaky Russian. As soon as they arrived at the address, Napoleon knew he'd blown it. It was nothing but an old dilapidated brick warehouse, long out of use. The door was boarded up solidly, as were all the windows...and there was no clue to be seen anywhere in sight.

His mind raced back to the numbers on the back of the poem. Something about them was familiar, not exactly but somehow they reminded him of that 'binary' computer code Illya had bored him with a few months ago when the Russian was involved in upgrading the computer systems at headquarters.

Napoleon hopped back into the taxi, telling the driver the address of Del Floria's, getting a strange look from the man.

"Hey it's your buck, Mister."

This time it took forty five impatient minutes to get back to headquarters as there'd been a major tie up on Jackson Ave. They finally pulled up in front of the cleaners, and Napoleon paid the fare, tipping the man well for not engaging in any superfluous conversation.

Just as he trotted down the steps, his communicator called his attention, and once inside the shop he opened it to reply.

"Mister Solo, if you would be so kind as to report to my office. I have a small matter for you to see to." It was the voice of Alexander Waverly.

It took just a few minutes for him to get there and when the pneumatic doors opened, Napoleon stepped inside, giving his tie a little straightening. Illya was there, sitting in his usual chair at the conference table; his nose buried in a file.

"Ah, yes Mr. Solo, please take your seat." Waverly flicked a switch on his console.

Napoleon glanced over at his partner, staring at him long enough to bore a hole through his Russian's skull. Finally, Illya looked up at him, flashing a wry smile.

"Remember, off time," he whispered.

Waverly briefed them quickly on their assignment, more of a milk run than anything. The agents stepped out of the office with their files in hand..

Napoleon grinned at his partner. "You know, technically until we received this assignment, we were on our 'off time' as you put it, and since I found you in Waverly's conference room...I win on a technicality."

Illya had to admit, the logic was flawless, and grimaced as he realized his little plan had backfired on him.

"Fine you win on a technicality, satisfied? You really did not catch me," he finally smiled. "You were never supposed to have caught me as I had the clues set up as part of a ruse. You see, I never left headquarters at all today."

"What? But you were going out the door at the Mask Club. Sal..."

"I made arrangements for Sal to post my notes and to tell you he just saw me, as I knew you would seek out a bartenders assistance."

"You cheated."

"I suppose, but really it was more like a game of chess, and I anticipated your moves...controlling you with my clues. It was meerly a matter of sending you on a wild goose chase, just to teach you a lesson, of course. If you had read the poem carefully you would have realized that was the underlying clue that was staring you right in the face all the time." The poem was simply a metaphor for a wild goose chase." He quoted the last lines of the poem...

"_Still keeping one principal object in view— _

_To preserve its symmetrical shape."_

_The Butcher would gladly have talked till next day, _

_But he felt that the Lesson must end, _

_And he wept with delight in attempting to say _

_He considered the Beaver his friend."_

"So you're the _Butcher_ and me the _Beaver,_ huh? And you were just teaching me a lesson, about calling you snarky." Napoleon nodded his head, a slightly cynical look on his face.

'Ah you have finally gotten it...my friend." Illya smiled.

"So the _snark was a boojum, you see,_" Napoleon suddenly quoted from the poem himself. "Does that mean you're my 'boojum' buddy?"

"You are impossible," Illya moaned. "Fine, if you must play with words, yes we can be _boojum_ buddies, but please just do not call me snarky?"

"Okay, so I won't call you that anymore. Scouts honor, "Solo promised. "I won't even hold you to the dinner bet."

"How generous of you, though I was looking forward to the Russian Tea Room."

"Wait, you didn't win."

"Depends on what you mean by '_win'_," The Russian smiled, cocking his eyebrows.


End file.
